OneShots from the WitFit Challenge
by MeilleurCafe
Summary: One-shots written for the WitFit Writing Challenge.
1. Cowboy

WitFit/Prompt: Cowboy/1-4-10

**Disclaimer: Twilight and all its characters are owned by Stephenie Meyers. I'm just here to give them a change of scenery.**

The courtyard was clear of any crowds by 1:30, so Bella took a late lunch. This enabled her to enjoy some peace and quiet in the midst of her busy days.

She pulled out her paperback and balanced her sandwich in her lap. Yet again, she was trying to get through "Wuthering Heights," and yet again, she was finding the pace of it too slow. Although the language was elegant enough to hold her interest, she grew impatient with Heathcliff and Catherine's torturous relationship. _I'm such a child of the electronics age_, she mused.

A growing din behind her diverted her attention. She turned to see State Senator Edward Cullen walking in the middle of a group of aides, lobbyists and news reporters. The Senate was scheduled to hold a voting session today, and Senator Cullen was sponsoring a bill that would cut the corporate business tax. He argued long and vociferously through committee meetings that such actions would help improve the bleak Washington State economy, but Bella knew the net result was less funding for the programs she worked with every day. She was a program aide with the Department of Human Services, and the programs she administrated for senior citizens and pre-kindergarten children were directly funded by some of the corporate business tax proceeds.

Senator Cullen and his entourage swept up to her bench and the senator paused, enjoying his audience. He gave her a quick glance and turned back to direcct his comments to the media. Bella ignored the scene and tried to concentrate on her lunch and her book.

"The taxes in this state are strangling our businesses," the senator said with a flourish. "We can ill afford to continue losing jobs and valuable commerce, and that is exactly what will happen unless we find a way to curtail spending in the state budget."

Bella snorted and resumed her reading. A few of the aides turned to her briefly, then resumed devoting their attention to Edward.

"There are many programs in the budget we can cut," he continued. "We simply cannot afford them now. Reducing the tax will stimulate business development and force state government to live within its means."

Bella rolled her eyes and shook her head. Edward had turned in the meantime so she was within his line of vision, and he saw her disgusted expression. He took note of it but continued talking.

"We'll see if my fellow senators have the guts to give the Washington State business community the break it needs," he continued. "If not, they don't deserve to keep their office."

"Oh my God," Bella mumbled through a mouthful of turkey breast, loud enough for the senator to hear. He turned to her in some surprise, then an aide grabbed his elbow and attempted to direct Edward back toward the State House. "Wait," he directed the aide. Edward excused himself from the group and then walked the ten or so steps over to where Bella was sitting.  
"Excuse me, miss," he said, turning on the charisma which had won him several elections and the advances of numerous women. "I take it you disagree with my stance?"

"Yes, I do, Senator," she replied calmly, picking at her sandwich, refusing to look at him.

Few people stood up to Edward in this way. He noticed she remained calm, but her cheeks turned noticeably pink when he spoke directly to her. She pulled at her long brown hair so it was swept back off her face.

"Surely you agree we need to give our businesses every advantage," he said, a professional charm to his tone.

"Surely you agree our seniors and children also deserve every advantage, which they will lose if your cuts are signed into law," Bella replied in a clipped voice.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, trying to maintain his polite demeanor. _Another liberal activist_, he groaned inwardly.

"Senior clinics and recreation centers will close, as will the pre-k learning program at schools all over the state. In particular," Bella noted, "your district will lose funding for several senior citizen centers which are fully utilized by the elderly in the neighborhood. I know this because not only do I work with these programs, which are funded by the corporate business tax, but I live in your district."

The senator was well aware that seniors were diligent about voting. The loss of services in his district could prove difficult to recover from before the election, let alone the primary, if someone mounted a strong challenge on that basis. "I'm afraid I wasn't aware of that," he said, stalling for time.

Bella practically exploded. "If you'd done your homework, you _would_ know that! You guys..." she spluttered. "You guys make all these decisions and you never look at the ramifications of your actions! No, you ride into Olympia like a bunch of tax-wrasslin' cowboys, determined to make your mark by cutting anything and everything, no matter who it hurts." She stopped, realizing that she could get in some trouble for talking to the senator this way, but she didn't regret speaking her mind.

The senator, for his part, was taken aback. He wasn't used to hearing such direct criticism. He _liked _it. A slow smile crept across his face.

"I'm sorry, Miss. What was your name?" he inquired politely.

Bella knew she'd have to answer for her temper tantrum. Well, let him try to cause trouble for her -- she'd bring it to the media types who were now beginning to eye them with interest, although they were far enough away where they couldn't understand the conversation.

"I'm Bella Swan," she said, holding out her hand. He shook it and held on to her hand longer than necessary, enjoying the warm jolt of electricity he felt as they first touched.

Bella must have felt it as well, judging by the surprised look on her face. She recovered long enough to say, "I'd be happy to discuss this with you further. Or, one of your aides, of course," she added hastily. _Great, now he's going to think I'm interested in him_, she thought. Though honestly, he had a kind look about his eyes. She didn't want to be taken in by that, of course, but she wondered if he had enough of a soul to care about the disadvantaged.

Edward's gaze bore into her own. He definitely wanted to talk to her more about this. She was different than most of the women who trailed after him -- different, also, than so many people who vied for his attention based on what he could do for them. It seemed she retained some fire, some passion for her work. She inspired his curiosity.

"Do you have a business card, Bella?" he asked, lingering on her name.

She dug around in her purse and produced one, then motioned with it to one of the aides. "Shall I give it to...?" she questioned.

The senator slowly took it from her hand, taking care to gently touch her fingers. "No, I believe I'll follow up with you myself," he said softly.


	2. Lust

WitFit Jan. 11, 2010 Prompt: Lust

**Disclaimer: All characters, names, etc. related to Twilight are owned by Stephenie Meyer. I'm grateful I can play around with them for my own fun.**

Two boxes with very precious cargo were precariously balanced on top of each other: one containing a red velvet cake that had cream cheese icing; the other, a chocolate peanut butter pie. I carried them slowly, careful not to shuffle them around inside the cardboard.

Using my butt, I pushed open the door of the restaurant. The dim lights signaled that the staff had already started to prepare for our customers. It was 3 p.m., and we had about two hours before diners began arriving.

"Afternoon, Rose!" I sang out to the hostess, who was setting the tables.

"Hey Bella. Need any help?" She saw me working to keep the cake boxes steady and stood poised, ready to rush over if one started to slide.

"No, I think I'm okay. Is Edward here?"

"Yup, he's been in the kitchen for at least an hour already."

"Great. How do the reservations look for tonight?"

"We have a few seatings still open at 9, but other than that, we're pretty full up," Rose informed me.

"That was the right answer," I replied with satisfaction. I brushed past chairs and tables and turned along a hallway toward the kitchen. Hung on the walls were several magazine and newspaper articles proclaiming The Reservation as the best new restaurant in the Philadelphia region. Glowing reviews praised the "innovative, progressive" cuisine which was a blend of homestyle and modern. Between these articles and the word-of-mouth of customers who became regulars, we were keeping our heads above water.

The other half of "we" -- besides myself -- is Edward Cullen, my best friend from our days at the Culinary Institute of America (or CIA, as it's called) and the gourmet brains - um, sweetbreads? - behind this venture. We met in a class that focused on saute and roasting techniques and wound up as lab partners. In that time, we discovered a mutual passion for fresh, seasonal foods, organic ingredients, and careful preparation with little to no regard for speed. Each of us also had a dream to own and operate our own restaurant, so it seemed logical that we become business partners.

Edward and I were both from the same region and had no aversion to returning home. At the same time, we also had no desire to commit culinary suicide by opening our first restaurant in New York City. Though Manhattan was truly a mecca for dining establishments, we knew we'd have to pay our dues in a venue of a smaller scale. Philadelphia had a nascent but thriving restaurant scene, and although it's hardly a backwater, we believed we could make a go of it. So far, our faith was rewarded.

We rented a small space in a townhouse on the edges of the University of Pennsylvania, where a previous restaurant had closed about two months ago. Although that made us a bit nervous, the first floor had all the utilities and appliances needed for our business, so we held our breath and signed for the loan. And now here we were.

Edward's brother Emmett was our bartender, keeping the drinks flowing at the small bar that had room for eight diners who were more interested in casual fare. His fiancee, Rosalie, also helped manage our wait staff. It was a family affair, even if I was not strictly family.

Using the same bump-butt on the front entrance, I pushed on the swinging door of the kitchen and saw Edward standing near the sink, clipboard in hand. Tall,with a messy array of bronze hair that was just short enough to avoid the dreaded kitchen hair net, he leaned against the drainboard, deep in thought. A light which hung over the sink lit him from the back as if he was a heavenly being; the white double-breasted chef's jacket only added to the effect.

"Hey Bells!" His handsome face broke out in a broad grin as he greeted me. Something about his smile never failed to touch me; no matter how much of a crappy day I'd been having, seeing him was always a welcome relief. "Are those the desserts?"

"Yes, these are from those two new recipes I just tried. My parents loved them; let's hope everyone else does, too." I opened the peanut butter pie and cut a narrow slice, dropping it on a plate for him. "Here -- try it. I think it's good. It's got just enough of a bittersweet taste to the chocolate to really enhance a good cup of coffee." I swiped the edge of the piece with a fork and held it up to him with an "open wide" gesture.

"Mmmmm....oh, man, that's great." Edward closed his eyes and hummed in pleasure, a habit that was one of the first things I'd noticed about him in class. Whenever he tasted something he liked, he got very uninhibited in his expressions. "I think you've got another winner," Edward proclaimed. "Which reminds me, I've planned out the menu for next weekend."

The Reservation served lunch each weekday and dinner on Friday, Saturday and Sunday evenings. This limited schedule was about all we could physically manage right now. Edward planned the entrees, and I handled the desserts, a division of duties which suited our individual expertise.

We were well into fall and the weather was quite cool, so Edward had been experimenting with some game dishes, various root vegetables, and some hearty soups. He'd also been working on a revised beef bourguignon that reduced the amount of bacon used and also featured his handmade noodles made from whole grains. Only Edward had the remotest chance of making them tasty and healthy.

He ran the pen down the page and pointed out a few changes he wanted to make, which I agreed with. Thankfully, I could trust Edward's judgment. He was very intuitive about food; he knew the best side dishes to pair with main courses, and although the presentation was always more than acceptable, he kept his focus on the ingredients and the best way to cook them.

"Hey, this roast chicken came out excellent. That new brine I found from The French Laundry cookbook is perfect," he said, moving over to the row of whole chickens lined up on the stove. Carefully slicing a piece off the breast, he held it in front of me and I grabbed it out of his fingers. It was poultry perfection. "Oh my God, that is so tender," I moaned. "What's in the brine?"

"Water, kosher salt, honey, whole smashed garlic cloves, Italian parsley, thyme, sage, and peppercorns. I cooked it three days ago; I had to let it cool completely before I could set the chickens in it. If it gets too popular, I'll have to put them in my bathtub. I used all the big pots we've got."

I laughed. "If it gets that popular, maybe we'll be able to buy you more pots. And even bigger ones."

"Or a bigger kitchen. I hope we don't outgrow this too fast, too soon." He had a tendency to worry.

"We'll know when that's about to happen," I reassured him, patting his arm. Without realizing it, I left my hand near his elbow. "Either we'll buy this place and expand, if we're in a position to do that, or we'll open up more evenings, or we'll wait out the lease and move."

"You make it sound so simple," he grumbled, though I saw a small smile play around his lips.

"No, it won't be, but we'll work it through," I said confidently. The kitchen door banged open and in walked Mike Newton, our sous chef. "Evening, campers!" he sang out. Walking toward the back, Mike hung up his coat and donned the same chef's jacket that Edward was wearing. "If you two kids don't have any objection, I'm going to jump right in and start peeling potatoes."

"I'll be over in a second," Edward called after him. He relied on Mike tremendously; as the sous chef, Mike was essentially Edward's right hand. They worked well as a team. I thought again about how fortunate we were to have such a tight-knit group running this popsicle stand. No divas, no attitude -- everyone here was just interested in doing things right and serving the best food. Edward was such a calm presence, too. Despite his worrying nature, he was good at keeping people motivated, busy and laughing.

Our work routine began for a Saturday night, the busiest night of any self-respecting restaurant's schedule. I checked the two additional desserts we'd ordered from a nearby bakery that, like us, offered carefully thought-out specialities with quality ingredients. And like us, they were looking to make a name for themselves, so we were sure to tell our customers that the toasted coconut cake and the petits fours came from the Red Chevy bakery on Market Street. And they proudly displayed a card that said their desserts were served in The Reservation.

I helped with cooking the orders as long as space permitted in the kitchen. Edward had created an elegant side dish with beets, hardboiled eggs and a reduction of balsamic vinegar that didn't seem to be in demand. A little miffed, he fed me several spoonfuls.

"I'm not one to ask. I love beets," I said, my mouth crammed with the surprisingly light and tangy vegetable. He'd chopped the egg to a perfect consistency. He frowned. "Maybe it's just not beet day."

This was generally how our evenings unfolded. The lunches were much simpler; Mike usually took over as long as Edward planned the menu, which was quite limited and usually consisted of takeout for our patrons. Normally, Edward and I were involved in organizing and purchasing for the upcoming, all-important dinner menus. The lunches helped pay the bills.

Rose poked her head in to say Emmett needed more merlot at the bar, so I ran to the basement to grab a few more bottles. I often felt more like a gopher than a chef, but I didn't mind. I was intent on doing whatever it took to make The Reservation a success, as long as my feet held out.

After 100 meals flew out of the kitchen, I stopped counting, grateful that Edward had the gift for estimating how much we needed of every ingredient for this weekend's menu. The last customer left around 10:30, and I helped Rose and Angela, one of the wait staff, clean up. We grabbed all the tableclothes and dropped them in a canvas duffle for the laundry pickup tomorrow.

Suddenly, I felt as exhausted as I ever had. I wandered back to the kitchen, a place which had been my favorite refuge since I was a child and watched my Polish grandmother make homemade pierogies. Slowly pushing the door open, I plopped on a stool besides Edward, who was at the butcherblock table -- now cleaned with boiling water -- eating a Dagwood Bumpsted-sized sandwich.

"Mmm. That smells good. What is it?"

"Fresh roast pork sandwich on artisan bread, with homemade mayonnaise. Simple but good. Here," he said, holding one half in front of me so I could take a bite.

"Wow. Exceptional." I took the other half off his plate and waved my hand at his half-hearted protests.

"You look tired," he commented, his mouth full.

"I am. I don't know why I'm so tired tonight. I mean, I'm energized because people seem to love this place, but you never know until you're actually doing it how much physical work is involved in running a restaurant." I stretched my neck from side to side.

"I know," Edward said, nodding. "I used to hate washing dishes. Now I practically do it for a living." He'd finished his half of the sandwich and rose to stand behind me. "Here. Maybe I can help."

He placed his strong hands on the tops of my shoulders and began to massage, his agilethumbs digging gently into the area where my shoulders met my spine. Involuntarily, I moaned. "Oh, Edward, that feels sooooo good..." And then I couldn't help but laugh.

"What's so funny?" he asked, amused.

"Good thing everybody left. They'd sure wonder what we were doing in here." Edward was silent for a minute as he finished rubbing my back. He moved his hands to squeeze the sides of my arms, then turned me around on the stool to face him.

"What _are_ we doing in here?" His hands on my knees, Edward leaned in a little closer to my face. With his green eyes focused directly into my own brown-eyed gaze, I got the meaning behind his words. Those long fingers were splayed over my knees. They could discern which fruits and vegetables were at the height of their ripeness and would prove perfect for any seasonal dish. They could pluck a chicken in seconds and saute mushrooms until they were so tender and mildly woodsy, it would make your Italian grandmother cry. I knew these hands were talented in the kitchen. How else were they skilled?

I tilted my head and narrowed my eyes. It was starting to make sense. Our lust for food, our common enthusiasm and love for all things gustatory, was the start. It was like a good roux, which forms the basis for all excellent dishes. You start with something that solid, and you'll wind up with the most delicious creation ever.

Edward watched me, at first misjudging my reaction for skepticism. His expression cleared when I slowly moved my arms up and put them around his neck. "Trying a new recipe?" I finally replied softly. He grinned and bent down to kiss me, and it was better than anything I'd tasted in my entire life.


	3. Evidence

WitFit Prompts "Evidence" 2/3/10

She should have known something was up when he called her, more or less out of the blue.

For at least a week, she'd been leaving him messages -- calls and texts -- but he barely answered. It got so bad that she contemplated lying about something, maybe telling him that her dad was seriously ill and he should come over, just to get him to respond. Just to get some acknowledgement from him.

And then her cell rang, and it was him. She flipped it open and hit the key on the second ring.

"Hey," she said, all coiled anticipation.

"Hey," he said back. "Meet me tonight around 7?"

"Sure," she replied, barely able to contain the excitement in her voice. They hadn't seen each other in almost ten days, and she was working herself past fear and up to anger. Once his voice came through, though, she fell right back into accepting whatever he'd ask.

"Okay. Let's go to the Forks Diner. We can get some burgers or something."

"Um, okay, I guess." Not on the rez? That didn't do anything to ease her mind. Why didn't he want to hang out on the rez? "Can you pick me up?"

"No, sorry. I have something I have to do until pretty much right at that time. Let's just meet there."

"....okay."

"See you then."

"Yeah, bye."

She tucked her phone back in her jeans jacket and fought the bitter taste of worry that now rose in her throat. He didn't sound excited or in any way happy at the prospect of being with her. She didn't know what that meant. She assumed right away it wasn't good.

The rest of the afternoon, she kept herself busy around the house: straightening up at least some of the mess, cooking a dinner to leave for the rest of the family, cleaning up the kitchen. At 6:30, much earlier than necessary, she got in her car for the drive for the Forks Diner.

She plopped herself down on one of the benches out front of the eatery and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and drawing on the tobacco with something like satisfaction. He hated that she smoked, although he usually tried to tease and joke her into quitting. The last time they'd spent time together, she smelled like smoke from the cigarette she'd finished before he arrived at her house. He never even said anything about it. The absence of that awareness of things that would provoke him, for good or for bad, scared her the most. A disagreement, a thoughtless comment or a full-blown fight she could handle. That showed he cared enough to get into it with her, that the emotions were still there for her to tease and inflame. His bland indifference, though - that made everything look bad. It was the baldest evidence yet that this was headed in the wrong direction.

At 7:10, he pulled up and parked right in front of her. He gave her a small smile and a brisk peck on the cheek. She turned her head and aimed for his mouth, but he quickly ducked away. He focused on the sidewalk before looking back up at her. "Ready to go in?"

"Sure." She was dying to ask him what was going on, and dying to avoid his answer.

They had their "usual" booth, in the back where it was somewhat dim, but he guided her to the opposite side of the diner. She gave an indiscernible shake of her head at these little actions piling up into one enormous, pending disaster.

Clarice, the waitress, took their order and disappeared into the kitchen. He fussed with the edge of his napkin while she stared at him in silence. _This is your show_, she thought. _Get on with it. _

Finally, he met her gaze and began to speak. "Look, I'm going to get right to the point."

She snorted.

"Don't be like that," he said, annoyed. This disgusted and frightened her even more, but she made a movement with her hands that told him to proceed.

"There's someone else," he said flatly, plainly. As if he was telling her they couldn't go to the beach because it was going to rain.

Now that it was out between them, she realized this was the thing she'd known all along. This was what explained his absence, his reluctance, his loss of interest. She blurted out the question that had been waiting for her own awareness to catch up.

"Who is it?"

He sighed, as if reluctant to tell her, before deciding she'd know before the night was over anyway. "It's Emily."

"Emily? Emily _Young_?" She couldn't stem the fury. Others sitting near them moved halfway around in the direction of her voice, then quickly turned away. "You're cheating on me with my own _cousin_?"

He didn't even try to shush her. "It's kind of out of my hands, Leah. It just happened."

That got a laugh out of her. "What, she threw herself at you and landed vagina first? What kind of bullshit is this?"

His head snapped up so he could glare at her. "Don't talk about Emily like that. It's not her fault. Be pissed at me but don't blame her, okay?"

"Oh, don't worry about that. I blame you plenty." Clarice was on her way over to them with full plates. The waitress hastily dropped the burgers on the table and then darted back to the counter.

She grabbed the ketchup. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, and she was damned if she'd let Sam and his fairy-tale romance ruin her dinner. This breakup wasn't messing her appetite. She'd see to that.

"Leah." He watched her intently and lowered his voice. "I imprinted on her." He spread his hands on the table in a gesture of helplessness. "Like I told you, it's out of my control."

"Oh, I see," She said, mustering as much sympathy as she could. "You couldn't help it."

"Exactly." Sam's shoulders relaxed a tiny bit.

"How convenient," she sneered. "I'm supposed to believe that? Give me a little more credit, Sam." She swirled one of the fries around in some ketchup.

"Look, you can believe me, or not. You can accept it, or not. It's the truth." He dropped his burger back on the plate. "Emily and I are getting engaged," he said quietly.

That shocked her out of hunger. Engaged? Already? This can't be real. No, Sam must have...there must be some other explanation for this.

"Sam." She couldn't help pleading with him, and she hated herself for it. She hated the both of them. "Don't do this. We were so good together."

"We fought _all_ the time, Leah."

"Because we're two passionate people," she insisted. "We had...have a good thing, Sam. We're good to each other. Emily...she's sweet, sure, but she won't give you what I can."

"Things are easier with her," he replied tersely.

"Easy is boring for you, Sam," she snapped.

He shook his head. "No, easy is good. Easy is peaceful."

She laughed again. "Since when? You liked our fights. You always said you liked how fiery I am. And you especially liked making up."

"I can't do that any more, Leah. I'm sorry."

Now the tears were coming. "What changed, Sam?"

"Everything. I just looked, and I saw her. And that was it." He grasped her hand but she pulled away. She was so pissed at him, she didn't want him to touch her. Especially not because that touch was laden with pity.

"I have to go," he said abruptly. "I wanted to tell you this face to face. I'm sorry I've been avoiding you. I waited too long, I know." He opened his wallet and left a $20 bill on the table.

She threw it at him as he stood up, and he watched it fall to the floor. "Dinner's on me," she snarled. "Go back to Suzy Homemaker and let her give you dessert."

Wordlessly, he walked out of the diner. She knew it was probably the last time she'd really see him alone. And that's what ultimately started her heart breaking. She knew this was the last substantial conversation they'd have, and it ended with her hating him and him feeling sorry for her.

She left the diner and walked past her car. Picking up speed, she moved faster through downtown Forks and moved on to the road to La Push. The shoulder on the highway was narrow, and it was dark, but she didn't care. She ran, the tears drying on her face with a chill that matched everything inside of her. She was headed home, but all that waited for her there had no importance. Maybe she should be running in the opposite direction. She had no idea how to start over at home. All the rhythms and routines there had Sam as their purpose.

Still she ran, trying to burn off every part of her love and the life she'd never have. With her feet flying one ahead of the other, she moved like someone was chasing her. She moved through the night as if she could find something to go back to.


End file.
